My city has lines centuries old.
They speak of a life lived with people in its warm arms fold.

My city has lines centuries old.
They speak of glory, struggle, political marches, freedom and many stories untold.

My city has lines centuries old.
They speak of passion, power, progress and a bright future waiting to unfold.

You look like a crawling line of ants marching along the rouged hills.

You know there is enemy waiting ahead , yet you don’t forget your drill.

Soldier, I know you.

You surge along even when the feet are aching and shoulder stoops.

You are the brave Indian soldier, you are the marching troops.

Soldier, I know you.

You guard the mighty Himalayas and the barren desert sand.

You do not care for the terrain , for in it you see your mother land.

Soldier, I know you.

You are the brave heart who surmounts obstacles through thick and thin.

You come back home sometimes on foot , sometimes in the coffin.

Soldier, I know you.

You are a not only a name on my day’s paper, or a face on the screen.

You care not for all this glamour , for you were never meant to be seen.

Soldier, I know you.

You are my friend’s dear husband some day, or a neighbour’s darling son.

No battle was lost without you, no war without you could ever be won.

Soldier, I know you.

You don your uniform with valour with or without the medal.

You are also the tender father to the baby in the cradle.

Soldier, I know you.

You are standing like a strong wall along the line of control.

You are the reason I sleep in peace, you are my strong console.

Soldier, I know you.

You do not die in the call of duty, you save the life of others.

You are the pride of my nation, of the mothers and the fathers.

Soldier, I salute you.

Broomstick elbow, now that did sound a little odd, even to me. Let me start again, Sachin Tendulkar..there there , now I have your attention and can almost see that smile broadening on your faces. Everyone must have guessed what is coming next…Tennis elbow ! ‘The Tendulkar elbow’ could have easily been a synonym to this infliction which affects many who have never held a racquet or a bat of any kind. I feel that there is a certain elitist stigma attached to the name Tennis elbow or golfers elbow. Why do I say this ? Well, for a minute imagine an ailment being called the ” Jharu elbow” or in a more stylized way the “broomstick elbow”. No, it will not be correct, the ailment will almost lose its identity. To come to my story, I got inflicted with tennis elbow (epicondylitis) a few weeks back and yes, it was caused with the excessive use of the racquet…called Jharu . Now every pro has a con, the con in this situation is that my right hand is in pain and has become almost non functional , and the pro is that my left hand has been suddenly promoted from being a supporting actor to a lead actor ; so much so that I am close to calling myself ambidextrous very soon. In fact am typing away with perfect ease ( not really ) with my left. But there will be no leftist inclination or right wing fascination in my writing . My left supports my right and vice versa in this condition of severe physical discomfort and lock down challenges.

With every passing day of lock down each of us are waiting eagerly for something or the other we would like to have back in our life. I am conflicted. My wish is so unimportant in the larger scheme of things but still with one non functional hand I really want my house help to come back to work. Her absence has made me appreciate her contributions in my house more than ever before. I want Kanta Bai / Sabita mashi back in my life. I wonder if I have ever heard any of my domestic helps ever getting tennis elbow, but surely they do much more physical labor than me. All the years of weight training in the gym had definitely not trained me for this, the broomstick enigma. Along with other house hold chores I have started doing a few dance steps on a daily basis. Not the tango or salsa type, the steps to my dance are easy, all it requires is a wet mop under my feet and I glide along the floor from room to room , some may call it mopping, but I call it my mop- dance. Whether the floor is shining or I am getting better at mop- dance is quite debatable.

A larger debate is knocking my mind. After the lock down is over, once we start returning to our new- normal, can we continue living unaffected by things around us in our blissful ivory towers? Certainly not. It will no more be right to live in disconnect ; disconnected with world of human pain and distress. My mundane existence with the struggles of a day’s chore seem very small in comparison to the reality. Every day I have seen, read and heard of so many good Samaritans who have come forward and contributed their bit to the society in various ways. I call my infliction elitist with the gun of sarcasm pointed right into my ever noisy brain. The difference between the them and us are blurring. The people who come to our house for work, the migrants who blend in so well with the populace that we forget of them to be migrants, the every day service providers of various sectors, they are stronger than me in will, strength, resilience and much more. The difference is humbling. And then the virus has also made us realize that life is the biggest equalizer. It does not chose us seeing our economic or social bearing, and in fear we hide behind our masks. For the first time in our lives we are all wearing the same mask. The mask of fear, a fear of the unknown suffering. This masquerade will end some day. On that day humanity will emerge with a more compassionate, sensible, human face. We can no more take this planet and people for granted, we are not here to stay forever, we are just making a journey, we are only passing through.

Coming back to a more engaging problem at hand ( literally..my right hand ), the agony of typing as each muscle twitches with pain has made me come to a resolve. After rest and recoup, I intend to learn tennis. I want to pick up that tennis racquet at least for once and hit a few balls in Sania Mirza style, across the court. Here I am at an advantage point, I have a coach at home, the husband is a very good tennis player…or at least used to be a few decades ago ! So next time I get a pain in my elbow I will proudly call it The Elitist Tennis Elbow, and not ” The Broomstick Elbow “. If I have to bear the pain then let me add some style to it. Till my elbow recovers, adieu from this blogger.

Love in the times of corona is not easy. I was thinking about all the lovers, all the boy-friends and girl-friends who have been locked up in different homes and cannot meet in this lock down period of corona. To them and many others who are away from their loved ones be it your children, parents, spouse or other people you care for, be patient and wise for this too shall pass. You can lock down your homes but not your hearts. We will have to resume our normal days from where we had left. The parks, cinema halls, class rooms, canteen, coffee shops, shopping arcades, food courts, and all the other places where love thrived between stolen glances and stolen hearts will once more buzz with life and love. If anything, the distance will make us appreciate relationships much more.

Today I will write about an old love story, a story of strong relationship ; the balcony type love story. The love story of DJ. Sometimes I affectionately call this couple DJ. D is the woman and J is the man. Let me now tell you ‘ ek choti is prem kahani ‘ of my DJ. Years back when D was still in high school and J in his medical school they fell in love, as I said …the balcony type love…”first time dekha tumhe hum kho gaya, second time mein love ho gaya “. Then that happened… what happens in most love stories ! The parents found out 😂.Those days the parents did not celebrate children’s “love affairs” like today . A tiny bit of filmy reaction to every ‘ pyar ka panchnama ‘ was quite expected by one and all. DJ also went through their share of the drama, first shock, then ” how could you ? ” ,then admonishing, gradual acceptance, and at last like a happy ending…dhum dham shadi …everything happened in exact predictable chronology. Ever since , they have been living happily .

Now to come back to the present times. Just before the virus hit us, just before we got locked down in our houses, DJ met with a crisis of their own. Around the middle of February D met with an accident at home. She fell from the staircase of her duplex house and fractured her leg. Her leg was put in a modern day cast…a shoe which can be opened and worn at will. Just like the Cinderella 👠 shoes this orthopaedic magical shoe fit her dainty fractured feet perfectly. As soon as D would wear this magical shoe she could go around doing her manmarziyan and the moment she would open her shoe she would lose all her powers and become the poor princess chained to her bed.

This is a love story, and a twist in the story is inevitable . Seeing D in all this pain and frustration ( despite the Cinderella shoe ) ‘Jill came tumbling after’…..( oops it’s J) . Don’t panic , he did not fall ; Fall in love … yes…. but not a literal fall ! What happened is that osteoarthritis hit him hard. His knee got inflamed and took away most of his mobility. So now DJ were bed bound…holding hand and 😻 looking into each other’s eyes.

DJ are very close to my heart. Thus, when they were in this predicament my heart strings pulled me to their beautiful home for a few days. After doing the regular rounds to the orthopaedic, X-ray rooms, I settled DJ in their love nest. I am a regular gym person. So I never questioned my physical ability to run up and down the steps in their house . But I soon realized that the stepper at the gym was much kinder than the steps of the house. Hats off to DJ, I will never again frown at their lack of physical exercise, they do much more than any average person on any given day .

DJ gradually settled into a make shift routine of their own, with a subtle sense of harmony. They would finish all their love talk by the day because evening hours were reserved for visitors. So many friends would visit them everyday, with ” get well” messages. DJ are loved by one and all, they are the cutest love birds ; their love stories are many , but that is for another time. DJ’s friends brought in flowers, sweets, food, but most importantly they walked in with laughter and smile to cheer them up. One neighbor took over the responsibility of locking their front door at night and opening it early in the morning. In an ironical sense DJ’ s lock down had already begun. I understood that now DJ were perched on the best nest possible and were being looked after well by friends. I gracefully exited , leaving the love birds alone to rest and recoup.

Fast forward the story by another two weeks and the virus attack hit our country . I was already back in my own house. DJ were also not spared from this harsh reality. They too stocked up their groceries and requested their house helps to get back to their respective homes and stay in isolation. What a brave decision for a couple living in a duplex house with one fractured leg and the other painful leg ..all by themselves. They must have looked into each other’s eyes and said ” we have got this “.

Nowadays I speak to DJ everyday on phone. The only thing I can do under the changed circumstances. Their love story continues even amidst all the hardship. As D gets down the steps ( remember Cinderella shoes ), J stands three steps above keeping an eye on her. D rolls the chapati and J lays down the table, J waters the plants, D washes the dishes, J brews the tea , D makes the bed . It is not easy, but they are managing. As all senior people are managing. True love conquers all impediments. These are the commitments every love story craves for.

Did any one ask.. fight scenes ? Of course there are many fight scenes. Like you and me, DJ too fight a lot. They fight over the tv remote, they fight over the volume of the tv, they fight over talking on the phone on loudspeaker mode, they fight over who will get up from the bed to switch off the fan when the air conditioning makes the room too cold . But who finally gets off the bed , or who has the last word I really don’t know. Somethings are best left for the love birds to sort it between themselves. Once the virus leaves us free, I plan to go over and give DJ a tight hug and let the virus know…Love is also contagious .

Okay, the son ( the person who pushes me to writing ) gave another ultimatum today. The conversation on w.app video ( the only way to stay connected with him) went something like this.

Son: “Ma, you know you have a thing called iPad, you remember na that it is not meant to kept charged at 100% all the time ! If you use it for typing once in a while it won’t explode.” I hear the sarcasm in his tone and try to dodge it with …

Me: “Babu , I do not think anyone is interested in reading my idle blog in these stressful times.”

Son :”Well, I will read. Write for me. Write for only one reader – me.”

Well, when has the mother denied her son of anything. But the lazy fingers objected, and I came up with another excuse ….

Me : “You know I generally write and post my blogs on weekends , assuming people will have some free time to read over the weekends.”

Son : “Ma, every day seems like a weekend these days. Though we are working, but we are home. So stop procrastinating and write.”

After this conversation I ran out of valid arguments and gave him a half hearted promise to write something. Life is in a sad state these days, I will try to laugh a bit but at my own cost. In an attempt to be funny if sentiments are hurt, pardon me.

It was the Holi weekend when the daughter came home to spread her joy and spend some time with Ma. This was a long weekend, what with the festival falling on Tuesday and Monday slated to be WFH. I had four long days to pamper her silly. The fridge was stocked with her favorite dishes, families were invited home for lunch, my holiday spirit was set. Yes , the virus attack had started by then, we had no plans to play colour, or go out for shopping, yet quarantine was still not on our minds. Before the weekend was over , reality started hitting us in rolling waves. The news on television was scary. Daughter’s office declared a work from home / no travel ( her work includes travel) . And so started the Home Office story.

A small disclaimer at this point about my family. We are not totally dysfunctional, but we don’t always work in sync with each other ! We often bond over silence ( I am the only one who talks as though my life depends on it ), we don’t give hugs and kisses easy ( I am the only one who needs these touchy things ), and lastly we four stay in four different cities ( I alone live at home). You do get the trend here, the children are blessed more with the father’s genes and I am playing an unequal game of 3:1 . My children have been out of home after schooling, now they are working individuals. The husband too has to stay away from home ( working) for most part of the year. It is certainly not my doing (though I would love to drive him crazy most of the time, but driving him out of the house is never my intention) . In the absence of three major players of the family my house has become my open field, where I get to make the rules and play the game my way. Now under the changed circumstances the two other players are about to enter or have already entered the field, that is home.

Week one begins. The daughter is disgruntled about this work from home business. She proclaims, “Work can not get done from home as good ” ( I totally agree, it just gets done better! ) She tries to convince her boss about it, but he is a sensible man ( much regard ). Therefore she settles down to start working from home, laptop, charger, phone, ear phones, bottle of water, all in place. At this point the ‘stay at home’ mom in me gets into a frenzy mode of guilt. I know how to make her …’feel at home’ , but how can I create a ‘ feel at office ‘ mode at home ! I feel like a fellow conspirator , hand in glove with the boss, grueling conspiracy to keep my daughter away from office. To counter the guilt ( self inflicted ) I start converting my home into office space. The dining table becomes the biggest work station. The lack of a proper office chair at home is brought to my knowledge by the daughter. I glare at my all wood dining chairs,they look anything but comfortable at this moment. I try to add a few cushions, but it doesn’t work. With some more added guilt I prepare another office space , my favorite library room. The over worked daughter must get a choice of two office rooms in the house. I pack up my fancy lamps, the crystal show pieces, the arty nicknacks. Trust me, it hurts a bit, I have grown a strange sense of attachment with these inanimate objects. On a blank slate I write the word “OFFICE ” in bold capitals and hang it on the wall, just to create some drama. I feel sorry for her insanely long hours at work. I try to cheer her up with variety food, scented candles, fairy lights fresh bedsheets, yet I know this is not how office operates.

The daughter had come home for four days, her suitcase had only that many clothes, thus in natural progression my wardrobe doors open up for her. What is mine is all hers, who can deny that fact. These things are easier said than done, players are possessive about their jerseys and not without reason ! For an extremely organized person like me ( please don’t call me OCD, it is not my disorder it is my strength ) seeing the gradual intermingling of the top shelf clothes with the middle shelf, and the middle shelf with the bottom shelf is hurtful to say the least. And at times quite magically the clothes escape the wardrobe and end up on the floor in a bundle. But my bundle of joy unawares of these minor mix ups, continues taking calls, typing away solutions to much larger problems. Seeing her at work I silently smile to myself and think it is but I who educated this young educator.

Week two begins with the father of the daughter entering home. He is on his regular break from work for a week plus time. I am somewhat glad to shift focus from daughter to father. By this time the virus has started spreading more rapidly than one thought it would. The false hope that India had an invisible immunity robe is being harshly ripped off our minds. The father (I often forget that he is my husband and not father) is home on holiday and is not willing to stay indoors all the time. He does not have to work from home, he is here to unwind, relax, meet family ,friends, but most importantly to play golf. My reservations about his golfing activities are hit off like putting a ball into the hole. I prefer keeping quiet to being hit by the club (exaggeration permitted ). The husband keeps at his game every morning as though his next match is with none other than TigerWoods ! The son sitting in California has started worrying about his family. The storm had already hit the world, the seriousness of the situation was for all to see, and we were still waiting for the lightning to strike home before we rushed for shelter.

My neighbors are all locked up in their homes. It is difficult to believe that any housing society can be so quiet and seem so empty. We are all isolated yet united in this isolation. Through my kitchen window I hear the neighbor’s television set airing some cartoon channel. I have not seen their two cute daughters in days, but the noise of everyday life filtering through the closed window is heart warming in these strange times.I wait for evening to see how the lights come up in every window, signaling human presence.Then there was last Sunday when the Prime Minister requested ” jab deep jale ana, jab shyam dhale ana, sanket milan ka bhul na jana, mera pyar na bisrana “, ( not in this lyrical form though) and out we all came, sharp at five, on our balconies equipped with our ” sanket milan ka”…..banging plates and spoons, blowing conch shell, clapping, we felt we were keeping our part of the promise. But thanks Mr. Prime minister, not only did we thank the caregivers many of us also got a bonus glimpse of ” mere saamne wali khirki mein…” !

Meanwhile the changes that have started happening indoors are very evident. The door bell does not ring anymore. Our everyday people, the house help, dhobi, paper man, milk man, have all gone back to their respective homes. Our television set keeps blaring news and views almost all day. The wifi data finishes before evening. Binging is no more a weekend activity….sans my daughter of course, she is a diligent workaholic. We wake up early. More number of tea/ coffee gets made in a day than otherwise. I am a compulsive conversationalist, I need to talk most of the time, in contrast my husband is a man of few words, very few words indeed. His monosyllabic ” hmmm”, ” yes”, ” okay “,” nah” , are not enough. I am craving for real conversation, and he prefers to sit with his one-plus. But I don’t give up easy. I jump with enthusiasm to show him my potted petunias in fresh bloom every morning, I look outside the window at the empty streets and tell him ” dekho dekho”, I play antakshari with myself hoping he will hum a tune absentmindedly. I do endless foolishness through the day. Poor man, I totally understand , how many times can he act enthusiastic at the nothingness of everyday. Still I try to be one up on the one-plus. And then suddenly when the norwester storm and rain starts pouring down we stand at the window together, admiring rain together, seeing the same sky together after many many days.

On social media people are complaining how house work is novel to them, more novel than the virus perhaps. I on the other hand don’t mind the business of busying myself with cooking and cleaning. And to keep my mood set on right frequency I keep reading, writing and decorating. After mopping floor for a week now I have come to accept that there is more hair on the floor than on my head. I also know for sure that I like onions more on my plate than on the chopping board. I don’t have the heart to tell my daughter that Maggie packets at home will soon finish and dal- chawal is the most sumptuous meal that will be served in the coming days. I realize that my husband though a man of few words is a very popular individual on social media. How else do I justify his fifteen what’s app groups and the endless stream of videos and messages on them. But alas, his concentration is disturbed twice a day, when he volunteers to do the dishes. Much to my delight I have discovered this hidden talent of the man, he washes dishes the best in the family. Every time I pick up the broom stick the husband says it is quite unnecessary. He thinks the house is clean, he thinks the house can’t get dirty on its own. He doesn’t know that I have a special X-ray vision glasses with which I can see every spec of dust, every tea stain, all the germs lying on the floor. Secretly I also wish I could see that invisible virus and beat the living life out of it with my broom.

Between all these intense WFH days ..I too work. I work at home. I completely forget my own space and pace of life. I am too content to have my people under the same roof. I miss my son at home. I worry for him. I know he is safe and is working from home and working at home…in another city, another country, far from me. To have the daughter and the father of the daughter at home in this time of isolation fills me with gratitude. These days are not about how well we wash our dishes or how we ration food, it is not about working or getting bored, it is about relearning to respect life as the most precious gift. While we wait let us stay busy being safe.

Ruins from centuries and the glory of Bhole Nath,

A river named Ganga which has travelled its path.

Bangles of glass in rainbow colours making a chime,

As the weavers weave makes silk threads sublime.

Mute spectator like ghats have untold stories to tell,

Where myth and history mingle and sentiments dwell.

The Ghats stand stoic as Ganga splashes away,

Perhaps in angry protest against the deepening clay.

Steps descent one by one to reach the river bed,

With each step ego, self, quests are gently shed.

Threadbare one stands in neck deep waters,

To swim or simply float, it no more matters.

Every step is drenched with the footprints of my kin,

Slippery with the sediments of some ancient sin.

As evening sets, crowds gather around the euphoric shore,

Boats sway in mid river till the river can hold no more.

Worship begins as hundred lamps light up the river,

Chants of Vedic shlokas adding fervor and shiver.

Not far from there another light burns beautifully bright,

Flames from the funeral pyre dancing in shameless delight .

The mourners muffled cries are not to be heard here,

For death by this ghat was perhaps the last desire.

Death parades hand in hand with life, day and night,

The forever burning fire is a reminder of that truth, in open sight.

To attain moksha and freedom from the cycle of life,

The path is arduous and not many are ready for the strive.

The labyrinth of narrow winding lanes leading up to open spaces,

Symbolic of the heart, mind, faith and trust of human races.

The charm of the ghats, the temples, the river flowing deep,

All drenches the soul and forever in our memories Varanasi seeps.

Her name was Ranjaboti. A girl from our honors class in college. One day she read out to the class a poem she had written, “Alone is not Lonely “. The poem stayed with me forever. It came to me in a room full of family guests and made me lonely, it came to me as I walked back home in a crowded street and made me lonely, it came to me as I lay awake at night and made me lonely, it came to me in the middle of a fun party I hosted and made me lonely. Those lines had an omnipresent power over me, to enter the center stage of my thoughts to see whether I was alone or lonely ! Being lonely is the hearts secret paramour. And in letting the poem seep into my thoughts I banished aloneness !

The structure of social norms were planned ages ago and well intended to bind me and my kinds to a life of set patterns, lest we get lost in our self created wilderness. The question of lonely or alone had just put a question mark in this structure. The image in the mirror disturbing my opium induced contentment , always reminding me of someone very familiar but forgotten. A rebellious mind cannot be easily chained, therefore it had to be lured to a place called ‘ happy place ‘. The need to be ‘happy’ has always been the biggest obsession of them all. The road to happiness asks for compromises, silenced questions, acceptability and obedience to norms. Happiness is a goal to achieve for which we must walk the extra mile. And what happens when we refuse to be happy is often recognized as melancholic depression. Melancholy is like a lazy hum and not as ambitious as happiness. But to chase happiness constantly is like chasing the receding waves of tides, to lose perspective of the distance travelled in pursuit, till the waves come back all over again and then you need to swim back to the safety of the shores. And in choosing happiness over melancholy I banished my aloneness ! 
Ironically enough, my romantic illusion of melancholia keeps me happy. In not wanting to fulfill every need, in deprivation , in denial of engulfing gratification, I find more solace than in complete surrender to the opium of happiness. My poison is less lethal, it does not numb my senses in ecstasy. It keeps me awake, to the sounds within. I chose being alone to lonely. Lonely is what the world may do to you, but alone is your own choice. Alone is a pricey mistress, it has to be wooed into your life through an art of beautiful imagery. And living in the illusion of my soul I banished my aloneness ! 
The aloneness should be so complete that even silence should shatter like glass. To create silence is easy, but to be with yourself in that silence is challenging and closer to bliss. When my mind starts wandering , it is neither the darkest or the brightest hour , I simply let it dwell in the undefined moments of silence . The mind makes noises till it tires out and seeks refuge in a word less state of existence. The symphony of words keeps me lost in my own state of trance. Truest sense of being alone would be when my words seize to exist, when there will be silence even in the hour when I am most awake. And in waiting for that silent hour I banished my aloneness !  
Words… merciless , shameless words, keep crowding in. Words disturb my state of alone. My words mock my vacant mind, my blissful silence. Yet the aching hollowness caused by the lack of words erodes me. Words keep knocking till I open the doors. Words are traitors playing cunning games with my mind, pushing me away from my quiet. Words make me greedy for creation, for baited anticipation of reciprocation. Words make me feel like a monarch when I chase an escaping thought and bind that thought forever. Words are dangerously slippery, they slip out of my mind and claim existence in the universe to be echoed again and again. Words love the sound of reverberation. Descartes played with our minds when he wrote “I think therefore I am “. Why cannot the I exist in a thoughtless state ? Logic leads to questions and answers for every question must have an answer or so we were taught to believe. To construct and deconstruct keeps the mind busy, and occupies it in a semblance of happiness. And in indulging my word empowered happiness I banished my aloneness !
This whole confusion was started by Ranjaboti , had she not written that poem and read it to the class, the battle of Alone or Lonely would not have started at all. Only if I could find her one day, I would put all the blame on her and rest at ease. How do I find her in this maze of alone and lonely. Do we stand alone because we are lonely amongst others , or are we lonely because we are waiting to be alone forever. It is never easy to escape the chaos of the world around. Therefore every time I chose to banish my aloneness I fail. The people, the melancholy, the happiness, the words and the silence , they all claim space within me. And yet in seeking the answers to all the unanswered questions of my mind I banished my aloneness once again.